


To Fire, All Sinners the Same

by pastelplugins



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Qunari Culture and Customs, Qunari Hawke - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:02:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28518333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastelplugins/pseuds/pastelplugins
Summary: After the Qunari assault separates Hawke from friends and family, he struggles to hold onto himself under the strict doctrine of the Qun.
Relationships: Arishok/Male Hawke (Dragon Age)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	To Fire, All Sinners the Same

**Author's Note:**

> I completely overhauled this first chapter. It has the same setup and outcome, but hopefully it is a better, more engaging read.

**_Now..._ **

Someone screams. His name?

Hawke is trying to piece together what’s happened as the ringing in his ears drowns out the sudden shouting.

He was remembering something. What was it?

* * *

**_Then..._ **

The afternoon was bleeding into evening when Hawke finally arrived at the Hanged Man. 

He’d meant to stop by earlier and meet with Varric, but Hubert had dropped in to the estate early that morning begging Hawke to sort out the latest atrocity to befall the Bone Pit. 

Apparently, one of the workers had unearthed some cursed amulet or jinxed talisman or hexed coffin or something similarly necromantic that had given rise to a legion of undead skeletons and the rest of the miners had refused to work until they’d been cleared out, which Hubert had insisted was Hawke’s job. Hawke had wondered aloud how this sort of thing always seemed to land on his plate and had been reassured by Hubert that it was because he was the brawn of the operation. 

The job had taken longer than expected since half the problem with killing the undead was that they didn’t know when to give up. The other half was knowing where to aim. 

But if Varric minded, he hadn’t shown it. 

“Killer!” he called, waving Hawke over to a table near the large hearth. “You’re looking fresh.” 

“Problem at the mine,” Hawke offered instead of an apology, “I had to drop my armor off with Sandal to have it uncursed.”

Hawke took a seat in the chair across from Varric. 

“ _Uncursed_ , huh? That an official magic term?” Varric asked, grinning. He was joking, but they both knew next to nothing about magic. 

“Probably not, but Sandal didn’t specify.” 

Varric snorted and Hawke flagged Nora down. 

The Hanged Man was unusually busy for an afternoon. Rowdy dock workers and down-on-their-luck nobles were scattered around the establishment. Groups ranging from one to five were taking up all the available seating from the bar to the tables. Someone was already passed out at a corner booth and someone else was already trying to rob them. 

“Slow day at the docks?” Hawke asked, sizing up the pickpocket. It probably wasn’t worth the effort of intervening. 

“Something like that. A few families have come in to complain about late shipments, but I couldn’t tell you, or them, where their boats are,” Varric said. The Guild was always a sore subject. “If they could come up with a half-decent argument, I’d wager they’d blame the weather on each other.” 

“They think they’re being sabotaged?” 

“I’ve heard everything from pirates to hitmen,” Varric took a pull of his flagon, sour ale dribbling down his chin to matt in his chest hair. “We’ve had rain every other day this season and the waves are unusually rough, but it’s the pirates stealing their animal skins.” 

“Tell them that,” Hawke said, flipping a copper between his fingers while he watched for Nora. 

“Not how diplomacy works, Killer, but it warms my heart to see you trying. Those snobs in Hightown are rubbing off on you.” 

Hawke pulled a face and Varric laughed as Nora made it to their table, her serving tray laden with sawdust and vinegar. 

She slapped a large tankard down in front of Hawke, spilling some ale over the lip and onto the sticky table. The tankard was chipped around the rim and threatened splinters, a hairline fracture on its side oozed. The Hanged Man’s finest.

Hawke passed the copper to Nora. She gave him an appreciative nod and continued on to her next table. It said something about Hawke’s integrity that she didn’t give the coin a tooth test anymore. It had taken Hawke years to distance himself from Gamlen’s reputation. 

“So you have a job?” Hawke asked, taking up his drink and settling back in his seat. The back dug into his back uncomfortably, but he’d already committed to the look. 

Varric’s smile dropped a fraction. 

“Not quite,” he said, shifting in his seat and setting his drink aside. “Listen, Hawke. About what happened the other day. With the kid in the Fade.” 

Hawke gave him a curious look. 

A few days ago, Merrill had asked Hawke for help with a half-elf Hawke had given to the Dalish a few years back. The job had had something to do with the kid being a special mage or special sleeper or something elf-y and magic-y that Hawke wasn’t familiar with. Hawke had thought passing this headache off to Merrill’s clan would’ve solved the problem, but he should have guessed it would come around to bite him in the ass eventually. 

Varric and Isabela had been within earshot when Merrill asked and were willing to tag along, so Hawke had taken them. Long story short, it had landed all four of them in a Fade-dream-thing and only one of them hadn’t sold their soul to a demon. Specifically, Hawke. 

Since then, Hawke had been collecting apologies from all participants. He had wondered when Varric would bring it up. 

“What about it?” Hawke prompted when Varric didn’t continue. He took a sip of his ale. It tasted like piss and went down like poison, but at least it cleared the sinuses.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” Varric sighed. “The whole time we were in the Fade, nothing felt… _real._ Which makes sense, considering.” 

Varric tried to sound playful, but Hawke didn’t play along. He wasn’t getting off that easy. 

After a moment, Varric cleared his throat. 

“Anyway, I want you to know I would never choose a—” he lowered his voice to a whisper. “A demon over you.” 

A beat.

“While conscious and sober,” he added, still trying for lighthearted.

Hawke resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It wasn’t the best apology he’d received, but it wasn’t the worst either. Merrill had been broken up about the whole ordeal, but Isabela had been very Isabela about it. At least Varric hadn’t been more upset about a boat than he had about betraying Hawke. 

In truth, Hawke wasn’t that angry with them. Anymore, at least. The Fade was disorienting and deceptive and if even Merrill, who had a lifelong experience with it, had been susceptible to its demons, what chance had the rest of them had? 

Mother used to say that people were their most honest in their sleep. 

_You can always trust what someone says tucked in the comfort of their dreams,_ She’d said to Hawke when he was young. _They have no reason to lie in their own mind._ Father used mumble in his sleep and mother used to punish him for it. 

Hawke chewed on his lip thoughtfully. In the end, Mother hadn’t been as prophetic as she’d given herself credit for though, so Hawke took her wisdom with a grain of salt.

“So less than half the time you’re on my side?” Hawke said, somewhere between a joke and an insult. 

“Hey, it’s at least half. More like two-thirds,” Varric said, giving Hawke a winning smile. 

Hawke relents and huffs a laugh. 

“Make sure it is,” he said, lifting his drink in mock salute. 

Instantly, the tension in Varric’s posture eased. He relaxed back into his chair and takes up his own drink to lift at Hawke. 

“Thanks for hearing me out, Killer.” 

“Mhm,” Hawke hummed around the lip of his drink. 

What was left of the afternoon was spent in higher spirits. Varric complained to Hawke about the metaphorical fires he’d had to put out in the Merchants Guild and Hawke complained to Varric about the literal fires he’d had to put out at the mines. Varric asked about Bethany, Hawke asked about Bartrand and they both deflected to gossip about friends and make fun of patrons. It was a pleasant way to spend his day. 

As the sun waned, Nora began lighting the sconces around the bar in anticipation of the evening. The torches cast the bar in a warm glow, softening the harsh angles of the tavern and her clientele. Hawke drifted between conversations, listening to the rowdy crowd around him while Varric worked on his stories. It was the most comfortable Hawke had felt in months. 

Since his mother’s murder, Hawke had been racing to put out fires all over the city. From political to personal and everywhere in between, it seemed like there was an endless amount of tinder to strike and Hawke wasn’t sure how much water he had left in him. 

Just being able to sit down with a drink and a friend was doing more to invigorate him than Hawke was willing to admit. Maybe the world wasn’t collapsing around him. 

The door to the Hanged Man slams open and all attention turns to the man panting in the doorway. He looked frantic, some might even say possessed. Hawke certainly would. 

“Blondie?” 

“The city is burning!” Anders shouted to the entire bar. 

Or maybe it was. 

Hawke sat up in his chair and, yes, now that Anders had said something, Hawke _could_ hear an unusual amount of screams filtering in from Lowtown. Apparently, the rest of the bar could hear it as well because everyone was on their feet in an instant and like the relentless busybodies they were, all rushed the door in a commotion of scraping chairs and overturned stools. 

Hawke took a drink of his ale, savoring his last moments of peace before Anders could make it over to them. 

“Poor bastard,” Varric tutted, sounding equally amused and sympathetic as they watch Anders fight the die of drunken deadbeats. “Should we help?” 

One would think these people would have had more respect for the man who routinely steals them from death’s door but, as it turns out, good deeds only get you elbows to the ribs and half a dozen people stepping on your toes. Hawke had tried to warn him. 

“He’s light on his feet,” Hawke said to his drink. “He’ll figure it out.”

Anders doesn’t so much _figure it out_ as the tidal wave of drunks backtrack into the bar, pushing Anders further inside and almost trampling him in their haste. Pick your poison, Hawke supposed.

“Must be a bad fire,” Varric commented, tapping his quill on the hardwood.

Hawke was about to respond when a man shouts. 

“Qunari!” He cried as an echo of screams erupted around him. Oh, fuck. 

“What the—?” Varric said as Anders finally outwits the crowd. 

“Qunari are attacking Darktown— and Lowtown,” he gasped and doubled over. Hawke eyed him for injuries but doesn’t see any blood that isn’t crusted. 

“What do you mean they’re attacking Lowtown?” Hawke growled. Anders glared. 

“Giant, gray religious fanatics are impaling people with spears outside,” Anders heaved. “I don’t know how much clearer I can be!” 

He was bent over at the waist sporting a yellow shiner and more than a few new bruises, but he still found the energy to be cheeky. 

“Why” Varric asked, bewildered. He craned his neck at an awkward angle and sat up straight, as though tilting his chin would help him see through the crowd. 

“How would I know?” Anders snapped. “Should I have struck up a conversation after they smashed though the doors of my clinic?” 

“Couldn’t have hurt,” Varric retorted. 

The sounds of a struggle were closing in on the bar. Hawke could hear distant screams of metal on metal, but he couldn’t be sure they were coming _for_ the Hanged Man or _by_ the Hanged Man.

“Shut up! No time for this,” Hawke said, setting his tankard aside as he pushed out of his chair. “I won’t be caught bickering when Qunari storm the bar.”

“I’ll grab Bianca,” Varric agreed, hopping off his seat and starting to push his way upstairs.

There was an idea. 

Hawke looked around for something to use as a weapon. He’d left all his armaments with Sandal under the assumption that the Qunari would _not_ be taking the city today. Had he had a little more foresight, he might have realized every day they _hadn’t_ was a gift. 

The bar had little to offer. There was a broom on the other side of the bar rail, a dull cutting knife at the table adjacent to him, and a fire poker beside the hearth. None of the crowd were wielding anything useful either; a chair leg here, a broken bottle there. 

“Wait here,” Hawke said to Anders who was busy fighting off a swell of patrons that had taken notice of him. 

Hawke shoved a few people bodily out of his way as he made his way to the hearth. One man had already claimed the poker, but Hawke yanked it out of his grip. He heard an offended _Hey!_ as he turned to push back to his table. 

In the few seconds it’d taken Hawke to grab a weapon, Anders had taken on new patients. He had some idiot laid out on the table and was healing their broken leg. 

He gave Hawke’s poker a disparaging look when he returned.

“Really?” He said scathingly, as though Hawke had had better options. Everyone’s a critic. 

“Like you better when you were wheezing,” Hawke said, pausing at Anders’ side to look around for Varric. No sign of him yet. 

No one had set the bar on fire yet, which was a good sign but Hawke can still hear fighting from somewhere outside.

“Speed it up.” Hawke looked down at Anders and got a pulse of irritated arcane magic for it. 

“I’ll catch up,” Anders responded and flicked his wrist in the direction of the door. “Wait outside for me.” 

“Fine,” Hawke said. He was too antsy to stay inside. He needed to see what was happening outside. 

Shoving his way through the throngs of frantic people crowding the bar, Hawke made for the door, leaving Varric and Anders to fool around with the drunks.

Outside is a different kind of chaos. Down the street, Hawke could see bodies littered among the flames and the rubble. The battle had turned down a side alley, which explained why the bar had been left alone. There were people cowering behind corners and in doorways in front of Hawke. Someone was cradling a woman with a lance sticking out of her back. 

It looked clear. 

Hawke steps out of the Hanged Man. 

A small group of Qunari round a corner. 

They spot Hawke in the same moment Hawke spots them. 

Great.

A mage and two warriors stared at Hawke and Hawke stared at a mage and two warriors.

Hawke couldn’t say he recognized them personally — for all his visits to the compound, all the Qunari still looked roughly the same to Hawke — they seemed to recognize him, though. 

For a second, none of them moved.

 _“Katara!”_ One shouted and they charged for Hawke. 

The warrior not playing babysitter to the mage made it to Hawke first. He’s wielding a pair of twin blades as thick as Hawke’s bicep and was eager to introduce them. 

He lunged with a diagonal strike, cutting Hawke right to left. Instead of deflecting, Hawke dodged backwards, trying to draw the Qunari’s second hand. 

As expected, the warrior stabs with his off hand to try and keep Hawke off balance. This time, Hawke parried, catching the sword between the hook of his poker and its shaft. He spun on his heel, jerking his iron to the dirt and twisting the blade out of the Qunari’s grasp. 

Hawke only had a second to recover his stance before the Qunari came at him again, swinging his other sword for Hawke’s side. 

With no time to dodge, Hawke braces his poker to block. 

The poker, being a poker, was significantly less durable and significantly more hollow than a greatsword. It took the blow with a dangerous whine and sent shockwaves of reverb up Hawke’s forearms. Hawke hissed and jumped backward, disengaging just in time for a bolt of lightning to scorch the ground in front of him. Right. Mage.

The warrior followed Hawke back, closing whatever distance Hawke had made for himself and took another stab at Hawke’s torso. 

Hawke planted a foot and pivots out of the way, not wanting to shatter the bones in his forearm trying to block again. Instead, he dove forward, swinging the poker for the Qunari’s shins. 

Unfortunately, nothing broke with the strike, but the warrior’s momentum knocked his feet out from under him and flipped him head over heels, sending him sprawling to the pavement.

Hawke hoped it was enough to knock him out as he charges for the mage. 

The mage is in the middle of a cast when Hawke slams his shoulder into its chest and knocked them both to the ground.

Before the mage could recover, Hawke drove the spike of his poker up under the soft flesh of the Qunari’s jaw.

The mage flailed, letting out a gurgling wail as it grabbed the poker and tried to pull it out. The hook must have caught on the mage’s jawbone because neither Hawke or the Qunari were having any success removing the iron from its face. Blood spilled between the wires binding the mage’s mouth shut and gushed from under its chin, coating the poker and making it too slippery for Hawke to pull effectively. Yanking only seemed to be unhinging the Quanri’s jaw as it twitched violently. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Hawke saw the second warrior rear back with a longsword and was about to abandon the poker when he heard the familiar woody nock and release of a crossbow. Hawke heaved a relieved sigh when Qunari caught an arrow in his temple and collapsed in a heap beside him. 

“Need to watch your six,” Varric called smugly as Hawke stood and planted a boot on the mage’s head. 

He wretched the poker free of the Qunari’s skull, making a mess of its face as Varric came up on his right. 

Varric whistled. 

“Damn, Killer. What’d he do to you?” he said, eyeing Hawke’s handiwork. 

“I wanted to drive it through its brain,” Hawke said in his defense. 

“Better turn him over before Blondie sees,” Varric warned, echoing Hawke’s thoughts. “Guy already doesn’t like you.”

“Shut up,” Hawke grunted, rolling the body on its front. He really was on thin ice. He didn’t need Anders thinking he was torturing mages now. 

Anders emerged from the bar a minute later. Varric waved him over. 

“Good show?” Anders asked as he made his way through the cluster of bodies, scrutinizing them any signs of life. 

The woman with a spear through her was beyond his reach. Bad news for her, but good news for Hawke. He didn’t want to wait around for Anders to play Andraste with every body he came across. 

“That’s the only show Killer puts on,” Varric said and shouldered Bianca, neglecting to mention Hawke’s many flubs. 

Anders’ gaze fell on the Qunari mage, and he shook his head. 

“Poor bastard,” Is all he could say before Hawke hustles them off down the street. 

The fighting had moved further into Lowtown by now. Hawke’s first instinct was to find the Arishok, but he seriously doubted the Qunari were even still in Lowtown. His second instinct was to try and meet up with the Templars at the docks — they must have seen the smoke by now and were either close to docking or already docked — but even under the circumstances, Hawke doesn’t believe they’d ignore Anders slinging curses. And if the Qunari were smart, and unfortunately for Kirkwall they were, they would head the Templars off at the docks. Hawke wasn’t eager to lead them all into an ambush. 

Their best option would be to try to make it to Hightown and Hawke’s estate. There, Hawke could get his armor, weapons, the dog, and maybe Gamlen. 

“Darktown?” Hawke asked Anders when they reached the turnoff to the elevators. 

“Overrun,” Anders said, shaking his head like he could read Hawke’s mind. “Refugees were fleeing through the tunnels. Hopefully they’ll be able to lose the Qunari there, but even if they do the Qunari will be watching the tunnels.”

Hawke nodded. He’d hoped to avoid the Qunari through Darktown, but if they were prowling through the tunnels, Hawke didn’t want to chance the blind corners and tight quarters. Like it or not, the streets were their only choice. 

“This way,” Hawke said and led Varric and Anders for the markets. 

“What do you think finally made the Arishok snap?” Varric asked as they descended the steps to the plaza. He had his eyes trained on rooftops. Hawke didn’t think the Qunari would be jumping down from them, but years of fighting off gangs had cemented a habit. 

“Don’t know,” Hawke responded shortly. The last time he had spoken to the Arishok, he’d seemed the same as always. Which was to say, at his wits end. 

Between the shoddy Lowtown accommodations, the Chantry zealots, the growing number of Qunari defectors, and the endless wait for their precious relic, the Arishok had long since begun to crack. A stiff wind in the wrong direction was probably enough. 

“I always appreciate your insights, Killer,” Varric snorted. “Weren’t you supposed to be their nanny?”

“Probably,” Hawke said, because it’s probably true. 

Over the last few years, Hawke had somehow been designated intermediary between the Viscount and the Arishok. It wasn’t an official position, had no title, paid next to nothing, and was likely the reason the Arishok had set the city on fire. 

“I think you may be out of a job,” Varric joked, but no one thought it was funny. 

“And a city,” Anders muttered so Hawke could hear. 

It’s not as though Hawke had asked for the job. He’d just been doing the contract work _for_ and _about_ the Qunari that no one else took on. It was the same as it had been since he’d landed in Kirkwall. The difference was the type of contracts he was given, they were a lot less hit-y and a lore more talk-y. Which anyone who had ever had a conversation with Hawke would tell you was a bad transition. Talking was far from Hawke’s most polished trait, and talk about politics was even worse than that. Nevertheless, the Arishok kept asking for him, so the Viscount kept sending him. 

It didn’t help that the Viscount would throw language around that Hawke didn’t understand like _zoning ordinance_ and _maritime transportation permit._ How Hawke was supposed to explain something he didn’t grasp himself was beyond him. He’s sure _Don’t build shit outside your compound_ and _Sign this document to build your boat_ lacked the nuance the actual paperwork detailed, but that was probably the whole point of sending him. 

As they trekked through the market, Hawke kicked debris out of his way and pointedly ignored the size of the corpse a wailing woman was draped over. This probably was his fault. 

They’re almost through the plaza before they come upon anything other than wreckage and ruin. Up the steps to the second level of the markets, they can hear fighting. 

“Found them,” Anders said, pulling the staff off his back as Varric draws his crossbow. 

“Rally here, around me!” Ordered a familiar voice. 

“Red’s here?” Varric asked, bewildered. “Think that’s a good sign or a bad one?” 

Hawke didn’t wait to find out. He took the stairs two at a time, landing on the landing just in time for a spear to whiz past his ear. 

“Fuck,” He breathed, ducking into an alcove by the refugee shelter and pressing his back to the wall. “Aveline!” 

“Hawke?” A voice called from somewhere behind the wall. “Hawke! Three rank and file and two javelins!” 

That meant next to nothing to Hawke. He couldn’t see the courtyard, much less where anyone was on it. 

“Where?” He yelled back just as another javelin flew past his cover. Shouting their strategy wasn’t going to do them any good, and Aveline must have had the same thought because she doesn’t respond. 

Varric and Anders hadn’t followed Hawke up the steps, and Hawke could see Varric’s — or maybe it was Anders’? — bun peaking out over the lip of the staircase. Hopefully that meant one or both of them were ready to cover him. 

There’s a shout in Qunlat, another spear, and Hawke decided to chance it. 

He dashed out from behind cover and ran for the first gray goliath he spotted. 

The javelin thrower was readying for another throw when Hawke made it to him. He looked as though he was caught off guard and Hawke took the opportunity to swing for the Qunari’s head, catching him between an ear and a horn and dropping him to the stones, dead or unconscious. 

“One less!” Hawke noted and then narrowly dodged another javelin, adding, “Varric!” 

“I have you, Killer. Hold your horses,” Varric responded, bounding up the stairs and into the fray. He leveled Bianca at the second Qunari lobbing spears and fired, landing an arrow in his thigh. “Dance with me, precious!” 

“Hawke!” 

Across the courtyard, Aveline and one of her Guards are facing down three warriors. They have a market stall overturned, propped up on four back legs and five front spears, providing flimsy cover from the onslaught. A second Guard is laying skewered on the ground a few feet in front of them. 

With the Qunari lancers either occupied or dead, Aveline and her living Guard were able to defend against the soldiers, one of whom had broken off to round on Hawke. 

Hawke looked behind him and only saw Varric. 

“Where’s Anders?” He shouted over his shoulder, returning his attention to the Qunari. 

The warrior stalked closer to him, a round shield in one hand and a sword in the other, sturdy footfalls belaying a heavy fighting style. 

Hawke squared his poker, sizing him up, when he noticed the ground in front of the Qunari quiver. Dust and soot rustled as though a whisper of wind had disturbed it. 

Hawke took a step back. 

The Qunari matched his retreat and erupted into flames. The sudden release of charge, blowing too-hot air in Hawke’s face. 

The Qunari roared, inhaling scorched air and burning his throat and lungs. He drops to the ground, trying to roll himself out on the stone but only succeeded in leaving sloughs of charred skin in his wake. 

“On the way!” Anders chirped from the staircase on the other side of the plaza and spun his staff playfully. 

“Can I have some of what he’s having?” Varric asked, sounding winded. 

Behind them, Varric had gone from dodging spears to dodging swings. The Qunari lancer must have realized that dwarves are easier to crush than stab.

Varric was trying to pull out of the Qunari’s range, but it wasn’t an easy task with three of his steps equalling one of the lancer’s; He wasn’t making enough room to get a shot off. 

“Coming right up,” Anders said, jogging to get within casting range. 

Hawke left them to it. Ahead of him, Aveline and the Guard have split off into pairs with the remaining two soldiers. 

Aveline was making short work of her Qunari, knocking the warrior off balance with her shield and taking quick, shallow jabs at him with her sword. The Qunari was already on his heels and would be on his back soon. 

The Guard, on the other hand, was not fairing as well. The woman was struggling to block the Qunari’s heavy swings, her shield arm dropping with every blow. She curled behind the thin metal like he was trying to hide rather than fight. 

The Qunari had his back to Hawke, which made his approach much, much easier, but the Qunari was densely muscled, which made driving the poker into him much, much harder. Hawke tried to angle his thrust up under the rib cage, aiming for the Qunari’s heart, but the layers and layers and _layers_ of muscle only allowed Hawke to get about a third of the way there before his iron gave out and bent under the pressure.

Piece of shit,” Hawke muttered, as the Qunari whirled on him with a howl. 

He slammed a fist into the side of Hawke’s skull, sending Hawke sailing to the cobblestones. He landed hard, his vision blowing white behind his eyes. His head and the surrounding buildings swam. The disorientation made him nauseous. 

Distantly, Hawke could hear shouting and metal singing against metal. He squeezed his eyes shut. Spots danced behind his eyelids as he tried to refocus. 

Aveline made it to him first with her Guard behind her. She crouched at his side as Hawke rubbed at his jaw. 

“Are you alright?” Aveline asked and Hawke nodded. “Can you stand?” 

He could still feel all his limbs and his head hadn’t exploded from his skull and that was good enough. 

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Aveline said and the rustle of armor followed her as she stood. She offered a hand to Hawke and hoisted him to his feet. The abrupt change made Hawke sick. 

“We need to get to Hightown. The Qunari are attacking the city.” 

“You don’t say,” Varric said, holstering his crossbow as he joined the small group. Anders followed on his heels. “This isn’t how they show their gratitude? It could go either way.” 

“Anybody need healing?” Anders asked, cutting Aveline off before she could respond. 

The Guard were familiar with Anders. Hawke had long since negotiated his safety with Aveline, and while Aveline couldn’t guarantee that her men wouldn’t go running to the Templars, so far they had a tense understanding. She had even, on rare occasion, brought some of her men by his clinic when the gangs had gotten too unruly. 

“Not me,” she said. “But Guardswoman Brennan could do with the help.” 

Brennan looked haggard. She cradled an arm to her chest and was nursing a bloody nose, exhaustion was written in the lines of her face. 

“Guardcaptain—” she started, but Aveline was having none of it. 

“Let Anders look over you,” she orders and the Guardswoman gives a halfhearted _Yes, ser._ Aveline returns her attention to Hawke. 

“We will head to Hightown and meet up with the rest of my company. With any luck, they’ve been able to hold the Keep.” 

Varric scoffed. “Why? So we can die on a hill instead of in a ditch?”

“If we can fend the Qunari off until the Templars arrive, we have a chance of keeping his city,” Aveline snapped. 

“What if the Templars don’t show?” 

“It’s their duty to protect Kirkwall!” 

“Is charging into a Qunari invasion also part of their duty?”

“Only if mages start sprouting horns.”

“Anders, this isn’t about the mages!” 

“Then they _definitely_ won’t be coming.” 

“Hawke!” Aveline barked, whirling on him as though she was tattling to her mother. 

Hawke’s head was splitting. He didn’t have the energy to argue. 

“Just ignore them,” he advised. “Let’s go. Anders, catch up when you’re done here.” 

“Right. I’ll just follow the bodies?” 

Hawke didn’t bother to answer him, starting the climb to Hightown with Varric and Aveline at his back. 

The slog up the great stairs was uneventful. There was a smattering of Qunari soldiers stationed at the different landings, doing little more than bullying or beating fleeing nobility and dying on Aveline’s sword. Hawke traded weapons with corpses along the way, trying to find something that wasn’t as long as he was tall. 

“So what were you doing roughing it in Lowtown, Red?” Varric asked as they approached the halfway mark on the stairs. They probably could have taken the lift, but with all the fire and the life being made of wood and rope, Hawke had thought better of it. 

“There was an incident. Two elves from the alienage attacked and killed one of my Guardsmen. Before we could apprehend them, they’d fled to the Arishok,” Aveline explained. 

“And when you went to go pick them up, the Arishok had already grown attached?” Varric reasoned. “Had he picked out pet names for them and everything?”

“When we asked for them, he just went on about zealots and their missing relic. I couldn’t understand what set him off. What could they possibly hope to accomplish by attacking the city?”

“Somehow I don’t think the Arishok cares what happens after this.” 

Hightown was worse off than Lowtown. The majority of the Qunari forces were concentrated in the streets, stealing nobles from their homes and carting them somewhere further into the city. Homes and market stalls were ransacked and anyone trying to flee was laid out on the cobblestones. Smokestacks filled the air and obstructed the setting sun, leaving only the fires to illuminate the bloodied streets in the creeping darkness. 

The state of the city left Hawke less than optimistic about his estate. He hoped Gamlen had had enough sense to take the dog and run. Hawke didn't spot the wrinkled old bastard on the streets leading to the estate, but by the time they’d fought their way there, it had already been raided.

Tables had been overturned, chests upended, finery shattered, but no bodies lined the hallways. It was possible Gamlen had taken the tunnels to Lowtown and tried to leave the city, but when Hawke checked the basement, he found the entrance still hidden under empty crates. Captured, then. 

“They took the dog too?” Varric asked. “Didn’t know the Qunari had the patience to potty-train a grown man.” 

“Hawke, we need to go,” Aveline warned. “If they have Gamlen and Potpie—”

Varric tried to muffle his laugh with a cough. Aveline shot him a glare.

“If they have them, they’ll be with the rest of the nobles.” 

“They wouldn’t keep the dog,” Hawke said, pushing his way past them and back up the steps. His head was thundering, his dog was missing, and he still had an invasion to deal with. 

If anything good came of clearing his estate, it was getting his own armor. Hawke’s tunic and trousers had taken a beating on the journey up here and between the near misses and not-so-near misses, his clothes were little more than tatters. 

Still, Hawke pulled his cuirass, cuisses and greaves over his ruined finery, cutting down on the time it would take him to buckle into his gambeson. Aveline lectured about rashes and burns the entire time she fastened him into his armor. On their way out the door, Hawke straps his greatsword onto his back harness and felt much more prepared. 

Outside, nothing had changed. A few Qunari patrols still walked the streets, Kirkwall still burned and screams still echoed off the stones, the rocks, the debris. 

Hawke wondered if the Templars had landed in Lowtown or not. It was well past nightfall now, and they were too far away from the docks to know. If Anders was right and the Templars didn’t come, the city had no chance. 

The Amell estate was situated in the Viscount’s plaza which made the trek up to the Keep a short one. 

“I don’t think your men held the Keep,” Varric whispered to Aveline after they had mounted the stairs to find a regiment of Qunari soldiers outside the doors. The three of them hugged outer walls. 

“Any ideas?” Hawke asked, looking to Aveline for a plan. 

“We would need a distraction,” Aveline said after a time. “Someone will have to lure the Qunari away so we can get inside.” 

“And what if there are more inside?” Varric asked smartly. 

“We’ll fight them.” 

“So we can take the _inside_ Qunari but not the _outside_ Qunari? Got it.”

“Do you have a better idea, dwarf?” 

“Cut our losses and run?” Varric suggested with a shrug. 

“No,” Hawke and Aveline said in unison. Varric held his hands up placatingly. 

“Fine, fine. What if we just walk in?” 

Hawke and Aveline look at Varric as though he’s grown a second head. 

“Walk in?” Aveline repeated skeptically. 

“They’ve been rounding people up and taking them right where we want to be. Maybe we could let them round _us_ up and take us where we want to be,” Varric explained. 

“We’ve been killing their kind all the way up here, they’re not just going to let us walk in covered in their companion’s blood,” Aveline countered. 

“Why not? The Arishok has been sending men to the Wounded Coast to pick off the Qunari defectors for years. I hardly think they’re going to care that we’ve killed two or ten of them,” Varric reasoned. “There’s a reason they’re collecting people in the Keep and not just chopping them up in the streets. Whatever demand of the Qun the Arishok is following, it’s more important than their sentimentalities. If they even have those.” 

Aveline wasn’t convinced. 

“It can’t be that easy.”

“It can. You said it yourself, Red, even if we could get rid of the Qunari at the door, we’d still have to figure out what to do with the ones inside. And we don’t even have the luxury of knowing how many are in there. We can fight our way in and die, or we can surrender our way in and maybe live.” 

Aveline looked at Hawke. Hawke looked at Varric. Varric looked proud of himself. 

“... Fine,” Aveline said slowly. “But if this goes south, it’s your head.” 

“Loser pays for the winner’s funeral,” Varric promised.

Hawke goes first, because of course he does. Aveline had volunteered, but Varric said she looked too combative. 

_We want to look pitiful, Red. Not pugnacious._

Not that Hawke looked pitiful either, but Varric hadn’t wanted to go first. 

Hawke walked through the gates of the Keep with Aveline and Varric trailing behind him. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was supposed to do, so he held his hands up at eye level. 

“We surrender,” Hawke intoned. He could practically feel Varric’s wince. 

“Nice one,” Varric whispered at his back. “Really selling it.” 

Hawke ignored him. 

“I’m coming up the steps.” 

The Qunari watched Hawke mount the steps with hands on their weapons. From Hawke’s vantage point, he could see seven warriors and three lancers. They could probably outrun the warriors, but the lancers would be more difficult to avoid.

“Do you understand me?” Hawke asked. He didn’t speak Qunlat, and he couldn’t remember hearing any of the foot soldiers speaking Common. 

“Yes,” one said in a heavily accented baritone. He was standing at the head of the company. 

“We want inside the Keep,” Hawke said to him. 

The Qunari stared. 

_“Inside,”_ Hawke repeated, slowly this time and gestured at the door behind them. Varric groaned. 

“We understand,” the same one responded, making no move to get out of their way. 

Hawke didn’t move. Aveline and Varric didn’t move. The Qunari _certainly_ didn’t move. 

Hawke felt foolish and put his hands down. 

“So…” Varric started before he had the rest of a sentence planned. 

“We’re going in,” Hawke said when he’d finally gotten fed up.

“Hawke—” Aveline warned, but Hawke was already pushing through the Qunari. When they didn’t attack him, Aveline and Varric hurried to catch up with him. 

“Ta da!” Varric said as Hawke pushed the doors of the Keep open. “I knew that would work.” 

“Don’t think that counts as being captured,” Hawke countered. 

“Semantics.” 

Inside the Hall there were more Qunari. They spared Hawke only a brief glance when they entered.

On either side of the large room, huddled in cowering clusters, were the Hightown nobility. The Qunari had taken everyone; Mothers, fathers, children, grandparents, everyone had been rounded up. Hawke even noticed some Lowtowners among the collection as well. 

“Help us!” Someone cried when they spotted Aveline’s armor.

“Save us!” Said another. 

“What’s going to happen to us?” Another whimpered. 

A few people tried to break away from the crowd to get to Aveline, but the Qunari lining either side of the red velvet carpet pushed them back in line. 

“Don’t worry,” Aveline said, “We’re going to get all of you out of here.” 

Hawke thought that was optimistic. If all this relied on their ability to reason with the Arishok, there was a much greater chance of things getting worse. 

“Where is the Arishok,” Hawke asked the closet Qunari. He received a blank look in return. 

“Guess we’re on our own,” Varric muttered, coming up on Hawke’s right.

“They’re just going to let us wander?” Aveline mused at Hawke’s left. 

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll let us know if we’re headed the wrong way.” 

As they made their way toward the back of the room, Hawke scanned the crowd for signs of Gamlen. Most of the nobles were fine, if a little roughed up from the manhandling, but he only spotted neighbors and strangers. 

When they reach the steps of the Hall, they can hear a sermon taking place inside the Throne Room. 

“Three guesses where he is,” Varric said. “Really think you can talk him down, Killer?” 

“No,” Hawke answered honestly. 

“Fantastic,” Varric sighed. 

“—You do not see that the grass is bare. All you leave in your wake is misery,” the Arishok thundered, behind the Throne Room doors. “You are blind, I will make you see!” 

Hawke threw the doors of the Throne Room open, the wood slamming into the walls and interrupting the Arishok’s speech. All eyes turn to on him.

The room had a lot more Qunari and a lot less nobility than the previous one. 

Ahead of him, two large pillars framed the staircase to the Viscount’s throne. A red rug ran the length of the room, following the stairs up to the back wall. Six Qunari warriors stood on either side of the staircase and six more lined the balcony above. Stood at the center of the second landing, is the Arishok. 

“Ah, but we have guests,” he said, not unkindly, and descended the stairs to meet Hawke on the floor. _“Shanedan,_ Hawke. I expected you.”

“I thought we had an understanding,” Hawke responded, very unkindly. His head was spinning, his blood was boiling, and he was in no mood to be pleasant. 

The Arishok lifted his sword to rest against a massive pauldron and eyes Hawke. 

“That was before your authority came to arrest _viddathari—_ elves who had submitted to the Qun.”

“They were—” Aveline interrupted, but Hawke shushed her. 

“What do you want?” Hawke asked. “Tell me how to make you to leave.”

“It’s too late for that,” the Arishok growled, closing the distance between them in three long strides. “For years, I have watched this city thrash and labor without leadership, without purpose. The Viscount has done nothing. The mage keepers have done nothing. The Guard has done nothing. 

“There is no leadership, no one to guide your way, so the disease of this society festers and rots everything it touches. I cannot leave this place without the relic, and I cannot stay blind to this dysfunction. This is the only solution.” 

“If you need the relic to leave, tell me what it is, and I’ll find it for you.”

“It is beyond even your reach, and I will not languish here waiting for you to return it. I am denied Par Vollen without the tome and I refuse to suffer the indignities of this city any longer,” the Arishok said, the venom in his tone bordering acidic. “So tell me, Hawke, you know I cannot withdraw, how would you resolve this conflict?”

“You will not have this city,” Aveline snarled before Hawke had a chance to respond. She unsheathed her sword and pulled the shield from her back. The Qunari respond in kind, those in the balcony readied spears and those below took up their arms. The nobles in the room screamed and scrambled for the walls. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Let’s hang on a minute,” Varric said, waving his crossbow between Qunari and Arishok. 

“Aveline!” Hawke snapped. 

The Arishok held up his free hand and the Qunari relaxed. 

“You would fight for this city?” The Arishok asked curiously, bending to meet Hawke at eye level. His golden eye search Hawke’s own. 

“Of course,” Aveline answered sternly. 

“Silence!” The Arishok growled at her. Aveline didn’t bend, but she did quiet. The Arishok returns his attention to Hawke. “You alone are _basalit-an._ I would challenge you, Hawke. You and I will battle to the death, with the city as the prize.”

Nobles gasped into their sleeves and murmured to one another. 

“I don’t like this, Killer,” Varric said carefully, but Hawke had already made up his mind. 

“Anything special I should be aware of?” Hawke asked. 

“You can’t seriously—” Varric started, but is interrupted by the Arishok.

“We fight to the death, you and _alone,”_ he said. “Kill me and the duty that binds me is ended. The others will return to Par Vollen.”

“And if you kill me?” Hawke asked. 

“Then you are dead.”

A fair point. 

“I accept your challenge.” 

The Arishok nods and straightens to his full height. _“Meravas!_ So shall it be!” he boomed.

The room didn’t clear so much as shift. Nosey nobles escaped up the steps of the Throne Room and clustered around the barristers over what was to be the ring, eager to watch the fight for their freedom unfold. All entertainment was entertainment to them. 

Aveline and Varric were more reluctant to leave him. 

“Hawke, I don’t know what to say…” Aveline sounded apologetic. 

“You could start with ‘I’m sorry I offered you up to be gutted by a huge, gray maniac,’” Varric offers. “Or maybe ‘I shouldn’t have volunteered you to bleed out on the expensive rugs. That was my bad?’ I think either of those would be a good start.”

“He’s not dead, Varric. He still has a chance,” Aveline argued. 

“What’s he supposed to do? Run circles around the pillars and hope the Arishok gets dizzy?”

“I’m planning on winning,” Hawke interrupted. 

“Yes,” Aveline said, unconvinced. She set a hand on his shoulder. “But if you can’t, just dodge and run until Varric and I can come up with something.” 

“Yeah, we’ve got your back, Killer,” Varric agreed, patting Hawke’s hip. “Put on your show until we can swoop in and steal it.” 

“I’m going to win,” Hawke insisted to their backs as they retreat up the staircase. 

The Arishok stepped into his view. 

“Are we ready to begin?” He asked. He has a bisected greatsword in one hand and a greataxe in the other. 

“Yes,” Hawke replied, pulling his own greatsword off the holster on his back and squaring his shoulders. 

The Arishok doesn’t waste time, charging Hawke before he’d even fully stanced, and reared back with his axe. 

Hawke dodged left as the Arishok came down on the stones to his right. 

He realized his mistake a split second before the Arishok lashed out with his greatsword, slashing down-left where he’d lured Hawke. 

Hawke barely had enough time to pull his sword arm up and brace with the forearm of his offhand. 

The Arishok’s blade collided with his own, the blow staggered Hawke backward a few steps and the Arishok was on him again, charging with his axe again. 

Hawke was a quick study though, and this time ducks right under the attack, creating a few feet of distance between them. 

The axe must be the Arishok’s offhand, because he didn’t follow through with it, turning instead to square his shoulders to Hawke. 

The Arishok’s left side was weak. He baits to his right to cover for it. 

The Arishok charged again, but this time Hawke charged with him, going low when the Arishok went high. 

Hawke aimed for the abdomen, but the Arishok deflects, adjusting so Hawke charged by him instead of through him. For someone so large, the Arishok was light on his feet. 

Hawke let the momentum take him a few steps away before turning with it and crossing himself defensively. 

The Arishok hadn’t followed him this time, expression unreadable. Hawke still gets the distinct impression he’s being dissected.

Hawke was already panting, his head was throbbing and his muscles were aching from fighting his way here but he kept his breathing even and his eyes steady, trying to avoid giving away anything that the Arishok could exploit. 

Eventually, the Arishok charged at Hawke and the cycle began again. 

Three times Hawke almost had his head lobbed off and twice the Arishok narrowly avoided dismemberment. 

They danced around the chamber, Hawke leading and the Arishok following. There is a give and take to the fight but Hawke found himself giving way more than he’s taking.

The Arishok is remarkably aggressive. He doesn’t give Hawke any opportunities to collect himself between assaults. 

The Arishok seems content to chase Hawke around pillars and into walls, never more than a few steps away. He stayed so close Hawke swore he could feel his breath on his neck. 

At one point, the Arishok managed to maneuver Hawke into a corner, pinning him between two walls and an iron. His downswing was off though, and it gave Hawke a chance to escape under his arm. 

By the quarter-hour, Hawke was hoping Aveline and Varric had thought of something, because he was running out of stamina fast. 

They were back in the center of the room with Hawke slowly guiding them backward as the Arishok rained blow after blow down on him. 

Hawke’s arms and shoulders were screaming with the effort of keeping up. There wasn’t enough time between blows to squeeze in a return, and a parry would only leave him exposed to the Arishok’s offhand. 

Hawke took another step back. They were getting close to a pillar now. Hawke would need to dart around it to create some space again. When the Arishok got in close like this, Hawke took the full weight of his blows, and with how exhausted he was, he couldn't keep wasting the energy. He’d just need to duck and run on the Arishok’s next swing, circle the pillar, get a blind shot in and back off again. He’d keep the distance and try to get potshots in until Varric and Aveline could intervene. 

Okay, on the next swing.

Hawke braced. 

The Arishok lunged. 

The doors of the Throne Room opened. 

Hawke looked.

* * *

**_Now..._ **

Someone screams his name again and Hawke loses his train of thought.

He was remembering something.

The doors. 

The noise. 

Hawke looked. 

Isabela was there. Anders was there. It’s a struggle to put the pieces together.

Hawke’s vision swims, the colors of the room bleeding together, and it hurts his head so bad he squeezes his eyes shut. 

Looks. 

Looked. 

He looked at Isabela. 

He didn’t look at the Arishok.

He opens his eyes. 

He’s holding the wrong end of a sword. The hilt is facing the wrong way. 

Hawke lifts a trembling hand — Why trembling? — to it. He shouldn’t be holding this end of the sword. He needs to hold the hilt. 

He tries to grab the right end, but another hand is already there. Hawke follows the hand to a forearm, a bicep, a shoulder, a face. 

The Arishok is watching him and Hawke is watching the Arishok. 

“What—?” Hawk tries to ask, but his lungs feel empty and full at the same time. He coughs instead and feels a wetness on his chin. 

_“Panahedan,_ Hawke,” the Arishok says softly and Hawke’s vision clouds as his legs give out. 

_“Ataash varin kata._ In the end lies glory.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
